


A Tale of Two Bards

by papercloudx



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Unprotected Sex, Vanilla, an excessive use of musical metaphors, pretend there is a potion for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercloudx/pseuds/papercloudx
Summary: Reader is a bard who met Geralt and Jaskier in a tavern. She has been traveling with both of them for a while and caught feelings for a certain rival bard. Some scene setting, some talk of feelings, but this is mostly smut.Cross-posted to Tumblr (same username)!
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/You
Comments: 22
Kudos: 190





	A Tale of Two Bards

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy am I in love with That Bard. I heard his voice and just knew that he would be my new favourite idiot to write about. I‘m a musician, so I leapt at the chance to use as many cliché music metaphors as I could. (I won’t apologise, because this was way too much fun to write. w) I usually don’t write pure smut, and am still trying to find a way to incorporate it into my usual writing style - feedback is appreciated!
> 
> If you have any requests for our favourite bard, visit my tumblr @ papercloudx and shoot me a message :)

The piano produces a nostalgic melody as your fingers dance over the keys. Your body sways, moved by both the rhythm and emotion of your song. It had been a long journey on the road, and finally being able to touch your favourite instrument again is pure bliss.

You had joined the famous Geralt of Rivia and the bard Jaskier in a small tavern in the Northern Realms. Jaskier, being ever the faithful companion, had sung hymn over hymn about the adventures he witnessed. You knew from experience not to trust the word of a bard, and you highly doubted he was actually _involved_ in any of the things he sang about, but one thing was certain: Travelling with the Witcher was a deep well of inspiration. The decision to leave the town was made quickly, and you didn’t accept Geralt’s protests at having _two useless_ bards at his side. (You didn’t correct him—you were confident enough in your abilities to quench a political revolt with your words, but swinging a sword? Nope. Not in a thousand years.)

Nevertheless, you had hoped to eventually prove less of a nuisance than his current travelling companion. Jaskier, in his baby blue outfit and youthful charm, did not seem like someone made for long tracks in the wilderness. 

What you had not anticipated was how very little you wanted to get rid of him the more you got to know him.

Your hostility towards the other bard soon turned into a friendly rivalry including a few games of “Who can annoy Geralt the most” and “Who is allowed to wash him this time”, turned into friendship, turned into more. A few kisses under the moonlight and a number of disgusted Wither noises at your loving eyes later, you are still unsure about how to classify your relationship with Jaskier. 

You dread the moment he becomes just another love song in a tavern, a poetic description of what should have been, and a tug at the heartstrings of drunken nobles. And yet, you cannot bring yourself to ask the question that burns in your throat whenever you look at him.

So, for now, you fully immerse yourself in the instrument. It is like coming home to family, or like falling into the embrace of a lover. A piano is impossible to carry on the road. Not that you don’t have other instruments to spend the time with, but this is the one you were made to play. You can feel the mood of the room change with every new chord you strike, and you wonder just how long you can make the crowd dance to your heart’s content.

You open your eyes to see the faces of your audience, but are instead struck by the piercing gaze of your fellow bard. Jaskier is watching you closely, and you notice a tenseness in him that you hadn’t witnessed before. His arms are folded in front of his chest, as if to build a wall that would protect him from the outside; his lips form a thin line, and his usually bright eyes are darkened—by the dim light in the tavern and the distance between you, or by something else?

He has never watched you like this before—you can feel his gaze follow your every movement, and even though he is as much of a music lover as yourself, the notes barely seem to reach him. _Now or never_ , you think. _I might not get a chance like this again._

You let your song flow into a booming crescendo, feeling the tension in the crowd rise—just to end abruptly, and leave everyone wanting more. You love this tactic, have used it on… more than one occasion, and know just how well it works. You grin, and bow before your audience: “I apologise, but I have pressing matters to attend to. If my esteemed listeners could wait but a little longer, I will be with you again!” You leave the piano and make your way through the crowd, allowing yourself another short moment to revel in the applause and wolf whistles.

“We need to talk,” Jaskier says before you have the chance to even open your mouth. Up close, you can see his eyes are still dark; not a trick of lighting and distance, then. Not wishful thinking either. You nod, and follow him upstairs, to the room he and Geralt have rented together. You thank whatever monster the Witcher is currently hunting for his absence.

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What?” You bat your eyelashes at Jaskier, feigning ignorance.

“Playing like that. Moving your body in such—you must know what it does to me.”

Jaskier keeps a respectable distance between you two, and you long to be close to him with every fibre of your being. His hair, perfectly styled to look just the right amount of unkempt; his big eyes that betray his every emotion; his voice, almost husky from the tension in his body; his chest hair, just peeking through his not fully buttoned shirt. You have been a fool to think you would be able to get rid of this man. 

Still, you don’t want to lose the game that quickly.

“I don’t know what you mean, Jaskier. Pray tell?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to will you away. Yet you remain there, rooted in your spot, and wait for his answer.

Jaskier exhales a long, shaky breath. “I thought my feelings for you were obvious.”

“Feelings? Or lust?”

Another long exhale, but this time, his eyes are fixed on yours, and an earnest look settles on his face. “Contrary to what people say about me, one does not come without the other in my case. I thought… I thought I had made it clear.”

He sounds pleading, and you have the urge to stop your game and release him from his torment. To tell him you feel the same, and turn this moment into something sweet rather than act on the sexual tension filling the room. But you can’t.

Your bard routines are hard to suppress, after all. 

Closing the distance between you with a few wide steps, you grip his shirt and pull him a little closer still.

“Why don’t you _show me_ your feelings then?”

The encouragement is all Jaskier needs. His lips are on yours, and they feel like fire burning away all the worries and insecurities of the last months. On and on the fire rages, through your chest, where it makes your heart flutter; on to your arms and hands that can’t stay still any longer and have to pull Jaskier in even closer; further still, until it reaches the lower half of your body and makes the wetness between your legs throb. 

Nothing is left of the man who was so desperate to verify his feelings just a few moments before. Jaskier’s hands roam your body, stroke and pull on your hair until you can’t hold back a moan, fall to your sides and explore every curve there—you are glad for the support, for your legs can hardly keep you up, such is the intensity of his kiss. 

It is almost impossible to believe that just the touch of his lips can have you quivering and aching and softly cursing under your breath. For the first time in your life, you think no song could ever capture how your body feels in this moment.

You feel Jaskier’s tongue ask for entrance and gladly allow it. It is a wet kiss, but not in the way that kisses turn wet after too much wine; it’s sensual, and exploring, and a promise of so much more. You push Jaskier towards one of the beds, hoping—in a hazy but still so _pressing_ way that only the deeply preoccupied know—that it is not the Witcher’s.

As you push Jaskier even further back, until he’s situated on the bed and you can comfortably sit on his lap, and you feel his length press against you _just so_ , all thoughts of Geralt are forgotten. Fuck Geralt. You want, _need_ , Jaskier inside you. The sooner the better.

Your desperation must show—you hear a quiet chuckle escape the bard. “Not so quick, my dear. I have… things I’ve been dreaming about for a while, and it would be a shame to rush this.”

In one skilful motion, Jaskier turns the both of you around. You find yourself lying on the bed, Jaskier above you, resting on one forearm and stroking your cheek with the other. For a moment, you wonder how your positions could have reversed so quickly—weren’t you in control just seconds before?—but then you see the look of complete adoration in Jaskier’s eyes, and nothing else matters.

“Do you trust me?” His voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. Yes, I trust you, Jaskier.”

Your consent is all the encouragement he needs. His fingers work on your blouse much the same way they do on a lute—a nimble, confident dance that ends with the cold room air meeting your flushed skin, the piece of clothing discarded somewhere on the floor. Your sensitive buds react to the new sensation, and you can see Jaskier’s eyes get ever darker at the sight. One hand comes to touch your breast—slowly, pausing just a moment, in case you change your mind. As you push your torso towards him, needing him to do _something_ , _anything_ , he grabs them, kneads, strokes, pinches—always changing his touch, to find out what elicits the most delicious moans from you. 

He kisses you again, and that and his touches almost make you lose your mind— _more, more, more_. Your mind races as your heart beats on in a wild rhythm, and Jaskier whispers into your ears—“You sound so delicious. I’m going to devour you, make you scream my name until—“

You don’t let him finish, instead push him further down, and wriggle out of the rest of your clothes. You know you should be doing something for _him_ , but you need to feel his touch, and anyway bard’s trousers are wide enough, and he starts kissing down, between your breasts, to your navel, dipping his tongue in, further down, until he finally reaches the place where you need him most.

As his blue eyes look up from between your legs, and his lips touch yours—just watching, breathing against you, pure torment. You push into him, and his tongue finally, _finally_ darts out to touch you. Jaskier takes his time to get to know you—alternates between slow and quick strokes, sucks on your sensitive nub and brings you close, so close—your moans fill the room as you try to hold onto the headboard, the sheets, anything you can grab a hold of. Just then, Jaskier reduces his pace and draws lazy circles instead. Devoid of your high, you start to protest—and feel Jaskier’s grin against you.

“You bloody bastard. That is _my_ tactic!”

He laughs and pulls himself up so that he rests next to you, head propped up on one head. “More than one bard can play that game, you know.” He kisses you again, and you taste yourself on his lips. 

Finding your dominance threatened entirely, you decide it’s time to take the lead again. You kiss Jaskier fiercely and rip open his shirt, not bothering to even attempt to be graceful about it. Just as he opens his mouth to protest, you tilt his head back with a soft motion of your hand and lick his throat. That gets the desired reaction—his body shudders, and Jaskier shuts up immediately. You suck and bite your way down to his collarbone, leaving a mark that would be hidden under whatever he decides to wear tomorrow. Just knowing that it’s there is enough for you. 

You palm Jaskier through his trousers, and it is your turn to watch and grin as his at most times so carefully chosen words turn into moans and curses. His eyes are closed, and you feel him lean into your touch, lost in the sensation. Your wetness drips down your thighs—it’s just plain _unfair_ how good Jaskier sounds even when he isn’t singing.

“Jaskier.” The bard opens his eyes. “I want you to fuck me.”

You aren’t aware that “just making his pants vanish” is a skill Jaskier possesses, but alas, he does. One second he was clothed, the next, you have a good view of his cock, fully erect, dripping with pre-cum. The sheer anticipation of what is about to come is enough to make you moan again. For weeks and weeks, you have been thinking of this exact moment…

You pull Jaskier closer again, until you can feel his heart beating against your chest. “Please, Jaskier. Fuck me.”

The bard kisses you as he takes his cock into his hand and slowly, excruciatingly so, pushes into you. Your slick heat welcomes him, and you feel your walls stretch. He gives you a moment to adjust, and when you are ready, you clench the muscles between your legs. It takes Jaskier by surprise, and he hides his face in your shoulder as he fists the sheets. “God, please, do that again.”

You do as he asked, and are rewarded with another of his delicious moans. He fills you so good, but you need him to fuck you, and preferably fuck you senseless.

You move together, looking into each other’s eyes, listening to the stories your bodies told of lust and passion and desire. The slapping of skin on skin, of moans and curses and begging fill the room, weaving a melody unsuited for anyone’s ears but yours. _This, this is what music is_ , you think to yourself, as Jaskier pushes inside just so and hits the right spot. You cry out his name, and he releases a breathless laugh, proud of the way he makes you feel. He moves faster, and harder, and you are so close again. You pull him in for another kiss, hoping that it communicates how you feel about this man. 

Jaskier answers by pulling on your bottom lip, and you feel his hand move on your clit, and there is nothing stopping you this time. Heat washes over you, from your toes to the tip of your head, and you throw your head back into the pillows as your orgasm hits you. You feel rather than see Jaskier’s eyes on you. You scream his name again, and want to stretch this moment for as long as you can. As it so often is, the moment does not listen, and the sensation ebbs away into a throbbing between your legs and a content haze falls over your body.

Jaskier follows not soon after, pushing inside you one last time with a scream. He pulls out slowly and rests on his forearms again, peppering your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids with soft kisses. Lying down next to you, he pulls you into his arms. His coarse chest hair tickles—it’s not quite as soft as you imagined it to be—but you don’t move. You are content, right in this moment, in the arms of the man you’ve desired for so long.

**Author's Note:**

> A wild chest hair appears! What do you do?


End file.
